


Repression in Budapest

by Moiststar



Series: Hungarian Hazing [1]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Piss, Tom's internalized biphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28948242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moiststar/pseuds/Moiststar
Summary: A special prize remains for Tom, the loser of Boar on the Floor.(A sort of prelude to my previous series "Wade Into the Water".)
Relationships: Greg Hirsch & Tom Wambsgans, Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans, Tom Wambsgans/Other(s)
Series: Hungarian Hazing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123202
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	Repression in Budapest

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the deleted scenes from the episode Matthew Macfayden briefly describes in various interview.

Tom had just finished dressing, willing his hands to be steady enough to button the silk pajama set he had neatly packed for the Hungarian morale trip from Hell, when someone knocked at the door. His heart rate spiked, thrown back into the panic he had barely managed to pharmaceutically dampen. 

"Oh, Greg." His eyes take a moment to register the man at his door. "What can I do for you this wonderful evening?" 

"Are you alright man? Tonight has been… wild." 

Greg fails to avoid giving him a once over, perplexed at Tom’s still wet, tousled hair, the belt of his Ralph Lauren robe sloppily tied in a low-hanging knot.

"Yes, I’m swell, just freshened up a bit. I’m in absolutely fine spirits and I’d be very appreciative if you had anything stronger than Xanax on you. Say a tranq? You seem a bit wound up though, Greg, would you like a bar?"

Tom took up the room in bundles of frenetic energy, sliding behind Greg to close the door and lock it, then into the bathroom and out again with an orange pill bottle. An odd smell tinged the room, containing the unmistakable scent of urine and something else, a strange charred gourmand aroma. A pile of clothes, what Tom had worn earlier in the evening, was visible through the open bathroom door. 

"I, yeah… I was really worried, they just kept me in my room, I think someone was waiting out there to make sure I didn’t leave. I don’t know, uh… Are you sure everything is okay, it smells like—"

"Will you shut up? I’m sure it was horrible for you, poor little Greg. Lost deer-in-the-headlights toddler. Just shut up and wait a minute." 

His tone throughout the conversation belied a roiling anger, exposed in shadows crossing his face and words incongruously heightened in a sudden burst of volume. Now he had dropped any facade of sang froid. He goes to the delicate claw foot night stand, leans on it, turning the pill bottle upside down, rightside up, upside down, then crosses the room to sit on the deep crimson armchair and crosses his legs, one foot bouncing menacingly. 

"Um, Tom? Are you sure you’re alright…?" 

There’s no inviting place for him to sit, the nervous, spiked energy radiating from Tom fills every square foot of the bedroom, so he stays standing, switching from one foot to the other. 

"I have a question for you, Greg."

"… Yeah?"

"What little hole in the wall college did you go to Greg? Did you even finish? I can see you being a dropout. At _university_ , we have these things called _fraternities._ You’ve heard of those right? Tonight was really a delightful little trip down memory lane for me, I—."

Suddenly he stops speaking, laughs as an afterthought, and returns to the opposite side of the room by the four poster bed which takes up more space than it should. The solid, wooden columns seem to almost rival Tom's height, an American conquered by the gothic tradition of Eastern Europe. He pops a pill followed by what little whiskey was left in the glass on the nightstand. There was a tremor in his voice of panic, shame, slowly but surely hitting all the raw nerves on the way out. 

_Don’t you fucking dare let me see you cry_.

"The only difference was father-in-laws weren’t usually involved in fraternities. Hazing is such a dirty word, you know, it’s not really like the movies at all. It’s just not as fun when shit gets real, when the room is stinking and splattered with shit after it hits the fan. I, yeah, I watched plenty of times. When I had _made_ it, one of the top dogs, the big boys. You think you have it so hard, Greg, I’m a positive angel to you. Let me count the _fucking_ ways."

His voice started to rise to a shout then shuttled back into a hissing of spittle.

"Tom, look, I’m not saying you’ve been... that bad to me. I seriously like, just want to know if you’re alright, and you don’t really seem okay."

"Trust me, I’m okay, _Greg_ . It’s nothing near as bad as the night we forced a freshman to drink more than his weight in Jägerbombs and he nearly died from alcohol poisoning. _That_ was a bad night. Maybe when you’re older I can tell you what I had to be, to do, to be the fucking hunter and not the deer. Oh wait, maybe next time you’ll be grown up enough to be drinking whiskey on the rocks next to Logan, Karl, and Frank, while they piss on you after pouring grease from the boar we ate on you." 

"What the fuck, man?! Are you serious? Piss, like, they actually got their dicks out and—"

"For Christ's sake, shut up. Lower your voice, you’re becoming hysterical, Gregory. Of course you don’t get it, let me educate you. To be one of the made men, you have to prove yourself in some way. It’s in every culture, it’s actually very normal. They used to use paddles to spank the naughty pledges and well, this was a more creative take. If you ever make it to where I am, you’ll get something even _better_. Would you like that Greg?"

"Yes, no, no. I’m not… I don’t really want to do anything like that, if possible."

"Oh but Greg if you want to climb up the ladder, out from the kiddy pool you’re in now to the infinity pool in Bali, you’re going to have to _do something like that_. It may even be me who has the pleasure of initiating you! Would you drink a cup of my spit Greg? Or would you prefer piss?"

Tom laughed so hard it sounded like he was actually entertained by the idea.

"Jesus, I have a sneaking suspicion that man really doesn’t like me. He actually laughed at me. Probably my imagination though! It was so dark, in fact maybe it wasn’t even actually…" 

Swirling the few drops left in his glass, his voice trailed off like he had forgotten he wasn’t alone and was just speaking aloud to himself. 

"I’m out of alcohol. Greg, be useful for once on this trip and find something in the kitchen. That’s not too big of a favor to ask, is it?"

"Uh, sure… Yeah, it may take me awhile to find my way around, this place is huge. But yeah, sure, of course." 

Greg edged out of the room like he was escaping a burning building.

The unique, memory-eroding high of benzodiazepines and alcohol had already fully set in, lowering Tom into a hazy unreality. He needed more of the latter to give him the full reassuring erasure of shame and fear necessary to function tomorrow. While he waited for Greg, he tried not to think of the panic attack he had at the bottom of that empty swimming pool. Pool lights glaring so he could barely make out the faces he looked up at. The uncontrollable body shakes which had stopped only shortly before the time Greg came knocking, after the effects of Xanax had started to kick in. Why was he here? Shiv. He couldn’t imagine her producing as much empathy as Greg had in even checking up on him. No, that’s not true, that was a ridiculous thought. But could she even listen without one eyebrow raised waiting for him to _stop being so emotional_ , or even worse, laugh right in his face?

His head was swimming. Tired but nerves barely copper wires, every protective layer sheathed off, every moment a test. A test. Physically he recoiled at them, the memories of university. Why the fuck did he bring that up?

When the memories rushed in, it was like cling wrap placing the past over the present. The games of the Roys made these moments more frequent, and it was more often that he’d talk and talk, to try to break back into right now. When Shiv moved silently away from his touch sometimes he’d see himself, younger and unmoored. Moving away from any physical touch in the aftermath of every unemotional fuck he had after sophomore year in university, but hating the empty rooms into which he retreated. So he ran to other rooms, other people. Until Shiv. These were rare though, these memories. These were dangerous, they usually were shut up far away. 

_It all needs to stay quiet—there’s no point dwelling on it, Tom— it’s all over now._

That’s what his mother said, who flocked in along with the other varying levels of rich and powerful parents to protect their sons, the ones who had so much ahead of them. The troops rallied, the walls of the city closed, leaving out his best friend, the only one who called the ambulance for the freshman who stopped breathing after downing countless shots. While hushed voices behind slammed doors made deals, kept the press to an absolute minimum, direct eye contact between everyone momentarily ceased, he was left in near silent isolation. It made it easier to mourn Noah when his name was already anathema, to mentally bury him alongside the pledge whose name he didn’t even know. 

The last time they saw each other was that night. A mess of smoke and haze, repeated loops made from the basement of their frat house to the backyard and the bonfire. The size of the party hadn’t been planned, but had grown out of a few of the seniors rebuilding some previous night's pile of logs and dragging lawn chairs into a loose circle that would evolve to contain high backed dark wood chairs from the dining room, a bench from the hallway, and masses of thick stitched blankets and pillows. That year he was a sophomore. Before the Fly Guys, before he became someone he disliked even more than he thought possible.

His big brother in the fraternity had a smoking habit. Usually with tobacco and a pipe, an affectation dropped only for cigarettes on those special nights where they functioned as easy-access branding tools. That evening was a dual-performance for Tom, as he balanced harried desperation between avoiding total humiliating submission his mentor’s relentless bullying and anxious avoidance of Noah. The two kept him moving in from the bitter cold of the yard, around the house, between chugging beer and smoking whatever was passed to him. The living room where he tried to flirt with whichever girl returned his forced flirtatious looks, the yard where he wrested away out of his big brother’s chokehold back to the beer filled kitchen, any opening door possibly ushering in Noah driving him upstairs or outdoors again. A loop repeated until he was so drunk he couldn’t run anymore.

As the evening swelled, they went on a beer run in the car his parents had bought him. There were several apathetic stores where the cashier would wave them on without asking for ID. Uncharacteristically standoffish and cold, Noah created a step or two of space if Tom would drift within some newly precharted personal bubble. He seemed to resent being dragged along on the errand. Rebuffing attempts at conversation or any careful socially appropriate touch until they were parked back on the curb a few houses down. Then, with the radio still on, he grabbed Tom's thigh and kissed him. Open mouthed, careless to who may be watching.

"10 seconds this time to push me away. Tonight you’ll be hungry," Noah said.

Don’t.

He walked into something he didn’t expect. That wasn’t true but it didn’t matter. He could barely remember registering that something wrong was happening, that something wasn’t right down there. In the basement, the boy a year below him was on the floor, not breathing after an impromptu game of how many shots can you chug. When he looked away, he felt someone shaking him, and when he recognized Noah, it was too late.

"You’re really going to stand by and let this happen? Fuck you."

The wooden staircase creaked behind him, and then voices shouting. After the kiss the memories became fragmented. This many years later it all fell apart like a letter read over and over again, folded and unfolded so many times it developed a soft pattern of lines. Pieces had broken off that had to be fit back together. The car, drinking, smoking, trying to act normal hoping no one saw him kissing his best friend, finding his way into the basement and ending up cheering on the alcohol poisoned teenager trying to score enough points to be accepted among the others barely older than him. The last memory Tom had of that night was vomiting in the front yard, red ambulance lights flashing on and off on the grass covered with red cups and bottles.

He didn’t want those images to still exist, least of all the eyes that had once filled him with churning desire searing into him a curse of blame. But he couldn’t touch the other happier memories before that night, especially the most dangerous ones he kept wrapped in layers of cloth. Fine china. Dead bodies. They threatened to cut even upon the intent to unwrap them, but here he was, in Hungary, heavy limbs tossing the protective wrappings as if possessed.

One of his favorite pieces of guilty pleasure from that age was without a clear date or time. It may have been a winter afternoon, which is why the sun looked pale and watery. They may have taken a nap after sex, the house must have been empty, it was quiet. He had only been aware of Noah and their mingled scents. They lay on their sides, facing each other, nearly close enough to share the same breath, arms and legs entangled so they twisted into their own chimera. His head was higher up on the pillow so he could take in the other’s face from above, brown eyes barely visible through thick, dark eyelashes. It was one solid pure thing, the two of them, with silent sureness, without any need to hide from others or each other. Without a beginning or ending, a found remnant of love. 

The back of his neck, at the slightly depressed point you can place a finger into, was sore from repeated scratching at the skin. His right index fingernail came back bloody when he finally looked down at his hands, flexing and folding and fondling each other. He felt like he had to gag, he was too exposed, there was nowhere to hide. 

Don’t.

The look of disdain and scorn on his mother’s face, the look of embarrassment on his father’s face whenever he hadn’t been able to hold back tears. A hand patting his shoulder would suddenly run cold until he learned what was acceptable and what was not.

_Oh Tom… Aren’t you too old for tears now?_

He moved to the window. Forcing himself to lean into the drop of his central nervous system to something deeper than drunk. Everything was fast and slow, over and not yet started. The moon was almost full. He had never tried to find Noah after he changed schools, cut contact. The window pane was cool and flat against his forehead. He wanted someone to hold him. Shiv. Like she did sometimes when she let her hands be warm and he could heal. 

Don’t.

He went to the sink, to remove the dark red specks of blood under his nail, and because he was waiting. He had forgotten what he was waiting for and remembered in a shock at his own haggard reflection, much more than a decade older than his mind had placed him.

Where the fuck was Greg?

The orange bottle was almost empty. He refilled his glass with water and broke a bar in half. This was not his usual habit but he had already memorized the danger zone in milligrams for someone his body size and height. He had to pack it all up, all of the time and longing that was lodged at the top of his throat waiting to spill out. 

Coughing, like he could swallow it all if he just tried hard enough, he stood in front of the bathroom mirror. It was a ritual that had no script, but took an incredible toll to shrink the past into the size of a nervous smile, a way to ease back into the weight of the monumental present and future. He was here, in the bathroom, waiting for Greg, so he could sleep. He was here, trying not to slide off the smooth fabric of the armchair. He was here, watching the door, trying to make shapes out of the pattern of the grain.

The sudden triple knock on the door firmly swept away any of the last remaining cling wrap of the past.

"Um, Tom it’s me? I ran into one of the housekeepers, and she like wouldn’t let me into the kitchen, but she gave me a bottle of vodka? I don’t know if she didn’t have whiskey or..." 

He almost laughed in relief. 

"Be quiet and come in, you maple syrup Canadian fuck. Took you long enough."

"I'm really sorry, this place is like a maze. Uh, anyways, about the thing you said before..."

"No, come on, forget it. I was being a bastard. Of course you went to college. Give me the vodka. Do you want some?"

"Oh, yeah. Okay. But that’s not the point, I meant—"

"No, Greg, don’t mention it."

"No, listen. Please. You know you can trust me, okay? You covered for me earlier, if you didn’t… Like if you don’t want to talk about it you don’t have to. But I’m still here… Right now... Do you want me to go or like…?"

Tom had been pouring out the vodka, a local brand he didn't recognize, sloppily into his glass. He took a generous swig and pushed the glass against Greg's chest. 

"Stay with me awhile."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I wanted to explore the idea of Tom belonging to a frat because I'm almost positive he did. OC's are hard for me to insert appropriately so hopefully it was not too distracting. As always constructive criticism is absolutely appreciated. 
> 
> Part two will be less trauma Tom. After the rewatch I felt so bad for him, give that greasy weasel a break!


End file.
